


Gold and Royal Lion Blue

by Seren (Architect)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Red White & Royal Blue AU, in this house we believe in happy endings and Dimitri having both eyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22446337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Architect/pseuds/Seren
Summary: The heir to the Leicester Alliance and the prince of Faerghus have always been rivals. It only takes one clash at a wedding to cause an international incident, and the best solution is obviously for the two of them to pretend to be best of friends. And it's just pretending, right?Red, White, and Royal Blue AU. If you haven't read it, just go with it (and accept my apologies whether you have or haven't read it--everything fit together too well).
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Gold and Royal Lion Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning--the odds of me continuing this AU (through the end of Red, White, and Royal Blue) are very slim due to lack of time and focus. Any love is much appreciated, but if you don't like to start totally unfinished fics floating in limbo, this may not be the work for you. If this really finds an audience and this isn't me shouting into a niche void, I'll try my best, but I make no promises. I usually write original works, so this is a big experiment for me. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Every corner of the Alliance palace held a secret if you knew where to look.

Claude von Riegan needed only five days from his arrival in the Leicester Alliance to find most of them. It would’ve been two days, if not for the deluge of press appearances and publicity events scheduled for his debut as heir to the leading house of the Alliance. The antiquated halls could hide little from Claude’s sharp gaze; it felt like this enigmatic place was made especially for him and his infinite curiosity. In a way, he supposed it was.

His favorite discovery was a secret message created just for people like him—those daring enough to step out on a limb to satisfy their own curiosity. If you carefully climbed from the balcony outside Claude’s room, you could reach a faux balcony that, despite the lack of a door suggesting it shouldn’t be used as a balcony, was strong enough to support his weight without any signs of stress. It was perfectly usable, if inaccessible to the average person.

The balcony offered a picturesque view of Alliance lands to daring souls: a landscape of distant mountains and lush forests unimpeded by windows, though it was rare that the palace windows were ever anything but spotless. Claude loved the breathtaking scenery, but his favorite secret had nothing to do with it.

If you sat on the balcony and looked at the right side of the third baluster from the left, you would see something like a smudge or even some damage that probably warranted attention from the palace groundskeepers. But balcony climbers aren’t the type to report such a thing, and the damage was actually words carved roughly into the railing.

Claude didn’t know who left the message. Maybe it was one of his ancestors, or maybe it was merely some stranger who had been brave enough to explore the palace without permission. “RULE #1: DON’T GET CAUGHT,” the mysterious carver warned. In all likelihood, it was some other handsome, brave young archer with a mischievous streak. Being heir to the Alliance was still relatively new to Claude, but he already knew that the greater part of his ancestry consisted of handsome, brave archers. If the writing hadn’t been so weathered, he would have suspected his grandfather was the author.

In any case, he didn’t need obvious warnings from brave souls of the past. But it gave him a little thrill to look up at the balcony and know that the words were there— physical proof that at one point another human had existed who shared his craftiness and fearlessness. Words that only those curious enough to find on their own would know about, because he never told anyone about them.

❖

As heir to the leading house, Claude’s entire life since officially joining the Alliance was balancing noble duties with training and studies. It wasn’t unusual for him to be forced out of bed early for archery practice and then shuffled to another noble’s territory or a nearby village to spread good will. It was certainly a busy life, but Claude didn’t mind. After all, he had to capture the people’s hearts somehow to prepare for his eventual ascension.

Because of Claude’s relatively fresh public reputation, House Riegan was pushing hard to show off all of his best sides—his skill in combat, his charisma, his captivating smile, and his clever mind. “This,” they were trying to say, “is the future of the Alliance, the one whose favor you need to win.” He presented himself somewhat paradoxically: a friendly, open leader ready and willing to accept new responsibilities yet still mysterious enough to keep people guessing.

It worked perfectly—distinguishing himself as an enigma with a pretty face won the public’s interest, which turned easily into affection. But though he appeared effortlessly charismatic and handsome with all the grace of a noble and the spark of enthusiastic youth, it was a lot of work to maintain the image of a golden heir.

The constant scrutiny made Claude grateful for nights like these, when he could do what he pleased without thinking ahead to the next public appearances or leadership preparations. Last night, he had wandered the palace again in search of any missed secrets. Despite how often he inspected forgotten corners and examined strangely planned rooms, he still occasionally found new discoveries. Tonight he elected to relax in his room and review strategy for tomorrow’s training.

“Hello, Claude.” Claude didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice of his visitor; his mouth curled into a pleased smile.

“Hilda. Another productive day of dodging work, I’m sure. Or should I say ‘unproductive’?” Hilda Valentine Goneril, eldest daughter of one of the noble houses of the Leicester Alliance. Before Claude claimed his place as next leader of the Alliance, Hilda’s older brother was assumed to become the next Alliance leader. Claude had thought that House Goneril would hold it against him that he swooped in from nowhere and took their future power, but Hilda and her family had done nothing of the sort. In fact, she became a fast friend and was now one of the two other noble children who he considered close companions and allies.

Hilda rolled her eyes as she dropped onto Claude’s bed and scattered a stack of newspapers and magazines everywhere, forcing him to make space for her. “You’d think since my brother is the leader everyone would go to him instead of bothering me,” she complained. “ _I’m_ not the one leading the house.”

“I bet they’re all grateful for your brother’s strong leadership and the assistance you provide at his side,” Claude said with a pointed smirk. It wasn’t that Hilda hated her brother or her family; it was that the effort required by everyday noble life was distasteful. Claude had never met anyone so adept at passing off work to others. It was truly impressive—even when he was on the receiving end of it.

Hilda whacked him playfully on the side of the head with one of the magazines. “If you don’t want someone to feed your ego, I’ll just head right back home.” She moved as though to gather up the newspapers and magazines.

“No! I’m just joking around, okay?” Claude caught the edge of her sleeve and tugged her arm back gently, though both of them knew she hadn’t been serious about leaving. “What’s the world saying about us?”

“Let’s see.” Hilda picked up the top magazine. “This one has noticed that you’re spending more time out of the palace and less time in the public eye. They suspect you have a secret lover—possibly someone outside the Alliance since you’re so mysterious.”

Claude smirked. “Right, like I’m not in vigorous preparation to be a successful heir to the leadership of the Alliance. You’ve got to appreciate how desperate they are to reveal something about me.”

“This one has photographs of me laughing during a conversation with Lorenz, so they ran an article about our blossoming young love.” Hilda tossed aside a newspaper as Claude rolled his eyes. There were two noble heirs he usually didn’t spend much time with: Marianne von Edmund, because she usually preferred the company of animals over humans (for which Claude couldn’t fault her), and Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, because he was a prime example of why one might prefer the company of animals over humans.

Hilda frowned at the next magazine in her pile. “And this one says—what? ‘Two households, both alike in dignity: Sparks fly between Riegan and Ordelia heirs’?”

Claude laughed as Hilda let out an indignant noise. “That’s not fair! ‘Claude von Riegan and Lysithea von Ordelia were seen leaving a party together and sneaking into a private room. Sources later reported hearing amorous noises. Could Riegan be looking to solidify his premier status in the Leicester Alliance?’”

“A bet’s a bet, Hilda,” Claude said, flashing her a devious grin. “You owe both of us cakes of our choice, and the next night out is on your tab.”

“You cheated,” Hilda complained. “This wasn’t supposed to be a setup!”

“But we didn’t say it _couldn’t_ be,” Claude pointed out. It had been easy to convince Lysithea to help him get an edge over Hilda in their bet if a new rumor about Claude and Lysithea surfaced within a month. All it had cost was his dessert for their next three dinners together.

The public loved to remind the world that Claude and Lysithea had bickered endlessly while studying at Garreg Mach together, and there was a vocal part of his fanbase convinced that the squabbles and teasing had a deeper meaning beyond that of Claude’s usual playful taunts. There were always people who liked that kind of thing.

Hilda groaned. “Ugh. Fine!” But her face lit up a moment later. “That reminds me! I need your opinion on dresses for this weekend.”

“This weekend?” Claude echoed.

“The wedding! It’s only the biggest event of the century.” Hilda gave him a pointed look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t started thinking about it yet.”

“Please. I’ve had my clothes picked out for weeks.” Claude didn’t care enough to know all the details. All he knew was that there was a very big wedding for someone very important in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the media had been obsessing over it for a very long time. It would be his first time returning to Garreg Mach since graduation. Claude was looking forward to revisiting such a dear place, a prospect tempered by His Royal Dullness being there as well.

Hilda pulled away Claude’s laptop without asking. “Wow, your strategy notes sure are something. Okay, so which dress? The floral one, or the silver lace?”

“Clearly the lace with the long sleeves. We’re going to a holy land, you heathen.” Claude snatched back his laptop. “Can I get back to my work now?”

“What work? We don’t go to school anymore. Let me find a video or something to watch.” Hilda took the laptop again, and Claude fake-scowled but surrendered. As night fell and the bustle of Riegan territory slowed, he and Hilda stole food from the kitchen and settled in to watch movies, enjoying time that belonged only to them.

❖

At the end of the week, Claude was on a private plane with Hilda and Lysithea en route to Garreg Mach. His grandfather had left early with Judith—who threatened to lock Claude in the basement if he caused any trouble—to meet the royal family and some prominent Kingdom nobles. Lorenz and the other prominent Alliance nobles were traveling separately, at Claude’s insistence.

Instead of Judith, Shamir was supervising the young Alliance heirs: a former mercenary who had been recruited into the Alliance as a knight when Claude graduated from the Officers Academy. She sat across the aisle from them, carefully inspecting the bowstring of her beloved bow. Claude knew that if something happened, she could have the bow nocked and ready to shoot before he could even blink. Years later, he was still pleasantly surprised she had agreed to accompany him back to the Alliance after graduation. He was even more surprised she had agreed to escort them to the Kingdom wedding, since she’d been looking forward to it as much as he had.

Hilda sat next to him poring over magazines that covered everything about the upcoming wedding in excruciating detail, from the menu to what every noble was rumored to be wearing. Across from them, Lysithea was lost in her own reading and enjoying an extravagant-looking cupcake. Occasionally, Hilda held up pages for Lysithea to admire or passed her magazines so she could take a closer look.

Claude, on the other hand, was more interested in the world outside the plane. Six years had passed since his announcement as heir to the Alliance and his introduction to all the privileges granted by his new status—including luxuries like grand bedrooms in palaces and private jets—but sometimes he still couldn’t believe that this life was his now. That things like this had existed before he knew about them and were now permanent additions to his life. Life at these heights was surreal. The Claude of the past could have never imagined looking down at the world from thousands of feet in the air.

He glanced over at Lysithea and Hilda, who were both gasping excitedly over something in an unrecognizable magazine, and shook his head. “I don’t understand all the fuss,” Claude said, not for the first time. Lysithea’s marked interest in all the minute details of the wedding irked him. She was usually his ally when it came to matters like this, exchanging mock exasperated glances with him while Hilda obsessed over fashion and pretty things.

“Claude! This is _huge_. It’s a major Kingdom noble, and this wedding is going to be amazing. This article says they’ve spent an absurd amount of money on the cake and the food. Look at this photo!” Hilda held up a spread so close to his face that he had to press back into his seat to see it clearly. A ridiculously detailed image of an extravagant cake that had apparently been designed by a famous celebrity baker covered the entire page.

“That has so many decorations it looks like the designer was paid per flower. Moderation is everything, sweetheart.”

“You don’t get to call someone out for being extra, Your Noble Excellency. Ooh, here’s some gossip about the prince!”

Claude faked snoring, but Hilda ignored his reaction. “Look at this. He was photographed on a date with a Faerghus noble girl. A new lover, perhaps? A secret relationship?”

“As if he could ever be interesting enough to have a secret lover,” Claude scoffed, barely passing a glance over the article Hilda was showing him. He didn’t know why she bothered keeping up with that garbage. The photos were always the same—some delicate blonde noble girl at a table with His Royal Highness Prince Boring, a gentle smile on his face as she laughed at something he just said. Which was clearly staged, because no one would ever laugh at any joke coming from the prince.

“Apparently despite the gossip, Prince Dimitri is going without a date. It’s got everyone wondering what’s really going on with his love life.” There was an animated gleam in Hilda’s eyes that frightened Claude, just a bit.

“Faerghus isn’t worth all the attention people give to it. They’re all blind saint- worshippers who are about as interesting as cardboard—especially the royal family and the nobles.” Claude could understand some of the attention people paid to royalty— that is, royalty with personality who had lives and interests, like him. But Claude never understood what was so fascinating about Dimitri and his stiff formality. A pretty face wasn’t worth much if the owner had all the charm of a brick wall.

“And the Alliance is about as unified as a herd of cats,” Hilda countered. “Look, no one’s perfect.”

“I’d rather be leader of a country that actually has some fun than one that blindly follows traditions from five centuries ago.”

In the six years since his announcement as heir, Claude had endured endless comparisons between him and the prince of Faerghus: the mysterious newcomer versus the lifelong royal. In Claude’s mind, it was no contest. After all, he was charming, clever, and lively—not to mention a breath of fresh air for the Fódlan nobility. So what if he wasn’t classically trained or raised in a palace like Dimitri? Or if he hadn’t commanded armies from a ridiculously young age? There was more to life than aristocracy and war and killing, no matter what Fódlan tradition dictated. And Dimitri was essentially the poster child for that kind of life: a model commander and prince with a flawless veneer.

“You going to ask Dimitri to dance then?” Lysithea asked. Claude threw her a dirty look and crossed his arms with a scowl across his face. He could imagine it now: dancing with Dimitri’s hand in his and staring into his cold, soulless eyes, while the expressions on both their faces screamed that they’d rather be anywhere else. His gut twisted uneasily at the thought, and he held back a shudder at the idea of being that close to the prince.

“Lysithea, want to make a bet? What are the odds that Claude causes an international mess at this wedding?” Hilda tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully. “I’ll bet you a strawberry cake from the bakery back home that he does. Extra large.”

Lysithea snickered as she tossed a magazine back to Hilda. “The odds of that are good enough that I know better than to take that bet.”

❖

Claude almost didn’t recognize Garreg Mach when he arrived.

It had been years since he attended school at the monastery, and the elegantly decorated grounds made his return feel especially dreamlike.

After the wedding, dinner and dancing took place in the candlelit entrance hall. A clever designer had hung strands of clear and deep blue crystals along the walls and, impressively, all the way from the top of the vaulted ceiling. The flickering candlelight caught the crystals perfectly, giving Claude the impression of an ornate starry sky. A string quartet played graceful waltzes, while an impossibly large spread of dessertscommanded attention near the dance floor. Claude had been impressed by Lysithea’s restraint when they entered the hall for dinner, but she now took full advantage of the socially acceptable timing to seize as many sweets as she wanted.

As the moon cast a silvery glow over Garreg Mach, some guests wandered the grounds to reminisce over childhood memories or take a break from the crowds with lovers and friends. Most nobles and royals were still in the hall, socializing as they picked desserts sparingly from the table.

Dimitri was still in the hall, of course. He wore a sleek black suit with a deep blue waistcoat and pale gray tie. A cape matching his waistcoat draped gracefully across his shoulders—a devastating combination of modern and classical royal fashion. He was talking with other Kingdom royals, holding a champagne glass delicately and laughing politely at whatever dull joke had just transpired. The gold lion pin clasping his cape gleamed in the dim light. Dimitri looked elegant, royal, and perfectly poised: a model Prince Charming, all grown up.

Claude found it absolutely insufferable. He took a glass of wine off a server’s plate without looking and sipped it as he glared at the prince.

Lysithea tugged on his jacket sleeve excitedly to show him a cherry tart with an impossibly twisting pattern etched in the top, so he missed the exact moment that the royal envoy approached the table. “Excuse me.” Claude, Lysithea, and Hilda looked up in surprise at a Kingdom servant. “Miss Goneril, Prince Dimitri would like to request the honor of a dance with you.”

Claude had never known Hilda to be at a loss for words—history was being made in the flesh. Hilda’s mouth fell open in speechless surprise, so Lysithea answered for her. “Oh, she’d love to! She’s been hoping for this all night.” Claude glared at her, but Lysithea merely smirked. “She accepts happily.”

“Wonderful. Prince Dimitri will be here to escort you soon.”

Sure enough, Dimitri showed up at their table a couple minutes later and gracefully extended a hand to Hilda. “Miss Goneril, it’s lovely to have the chance to dance with you,” he said. His voice was low and smooth, and up close, Claude could get a good look at exactly how well the blue cape and waistcoat brought out his eyes. His blond hair was pulled into a half-ponytail that would have appeared messy and careless on anyone else but was dignified on him.

Hilda smiled and shot an excited look over her shoulder as Dimitri led her to the dance floor. As they waltzed, a photographer hovered around them, snapping photos of every moment. They danced together beautifully—exactly what Claude expected of a prince who had been raised for a lifetime of events like this. But when Dimitri spun Hilda, he noticed the prince’s eyes were distant, his mind clearly somewhere else. The least he could do, Claude thought angrily as he accepted a glass of champagne from another server, was _act_ like he was having a good time dancing with Claude’s best friend. Was there even a point to Dimitri’s invitation, besides riling up the press and inciting rumors of an Alliance-Kingdom romance?

Claude remembered the first time he saw Dimitri. It wasn’t in person: it was in a magazine Hilda had accidentally left behind when they were about thirteen. Inside was a spread all about Prince Dimitri, including a professional portrait that made him look like the quintessential Prince Charming. Something about Dimitri’s piercing blue eyes and gentle smile made Claude want to keep the magazine for himself and lie to Hilda about its whereabouts. He almost considered tearing out the page as he gazed at the portrait, wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through Dimitri’s perfectly- styled hair. But in the end, common sense won out and he returned it to her. Two weeks later, that is.

Upon enrolling in the Officers Academy, Claude was intrigued by the prospect of meeting Dimitri in person for the first time. He wondered what the picture perfect royal was really like—if he was anything like what Claude imagined.

But with only a few words, Dimitri proved Claude’s expectations false. The prince was about as genuine as counterfeit gold. He wasn’t fascinating or charming or any of what Claude thought he would be like. He was just another pompous royal addicted to tradition and appearances.

“Excuse me, miss,” a lilting voice said from the right. Claude looked up at two of the prince’s childhood friends: Sylvain, a light flush on his cheeks and a charming smile on his face, and Felix, whose scowl matched how Claude felt on the inside. “There’s no reason why a beautiful young lady like yourself should be sitting lonely. Would you care to dance?”

Lysithea raised an eyebrow at the young knight and seemed ready to reply with a sharp retort, but then she shrugged with a small smile. “All right.” She took Sylvain’s hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. Claude and Felix watched them go with similar looks of displeasure before Felix slunk away with an even deeper scowl.

After finishing his glass of wine, Claude noticed Dimitri standing alone near the desserts and felt a sort of savage annoyance. Clearly, he hadn’t wasted any more time on Hilda than necessary. Claude glared from afar for a couple minutes more before drinking half a fresh glass of champagne and approaching Dimitri.

“Having a good evening, Your Highness?” Claude asked, injecting as much sharpness as possible in the last two words. Dimitri started slightly before turning to face Claude. The prince’s champagne glass looked impossibly fine in his hands, especially since he held it so delicately. He was tall enough that Claude had to actually look up at him, which irritated Claude even more than the politely surprised expression on Dimitri’s handsome face.

“Claude. It is good to see you again,” Dimitri greeted mechanically. “I trust you are enjoying the wedding?”

Claude shrugged and lied, “It’s all right. Decorations look okay. Would be better with more alcohol.”

Dimitri’s eyes flickered over him in a careful way that made Claude’s insides twist. “You’re drunk, aren’t you? I think you have had quite enough already.”

“Aren’t you tired of the act, Prince Dimitri?” Claude sighed and rested his elbow on Dimitri’s shoulder, which was much more difficult in practice because of the height difference. Dimitri stiffened when Claude touched him, which sent another wave of annoyance through Claude. It was as if Dimitri was so above everyone else that he couldn’t bear contact with mere peasants.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dimitri replied, in the same measured tone that drove Claude up the wall. Claude was familiar with facades, with maintaining a flawless public persona that might be entirely opposite of your true self. But there was something about Dimitri’s perfect mask that made him want to see it fracture. It was the same kind of impulse that tempted him to drop his phone off any bridge he crossed, even though he knew what the result would be.

“You know exactly what I mean. The bland, well-mannered royal thing. You pretend to hate the spotlight, but you always play along. Acting like you’re above everything and everyone. Aren’t you tired of not having fun?”

“There is more to me than that,” Dimitri said with a frown.  
Claude threw Dimitri a dramatic eye roll as a sly smirk rose to his lips. “Sure, there is.” “You are most definitely drunk. I believe that you should switch to water, Claude.”

“There you go again! Floating above it all, holier-than-thou.” Claude’s attitude was quickly bypassing mischief and sailing straight into smugness. “Is it confusing to you that I’m not obsessed with you like the rest of the world? That I don’t fall over my own feet for the royal prince of Faerghus? I know it must be _absolutely_ unheard of.”

Suddenly, there was an indescribable glint in Dimitri’s eyes. “So you say, Claude.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“May I point out that you are the one who approached me? I was having a perfectly good time on my own, and you decided to come bother me. In fact, I believe this has happened every time we have met.”

Claude opened his mouth to reply, but every word in his vocabulary had deserted him. Dimitri’s smirk was predatory—almost vicious—and his eyes gleamed.

“I have been nothing but polite to you from the moment we met. You are the one who insists on continuing this antagonism. Not to mention that, as I previously said, you are the instigator. And here you are again, coming to needle me of your own free will. History repeats itself, I suppose.”

“Excuse me?” Claude sputtered. "I don’t—"

“Please enjoy the rest of your evening, Claude. I wish you safe travels home as well.”

Dimitri’s voice held a slight edge as he turned away, finally shrugging off Claude’s arm.

There was no way Dimitri was getting the last word. Absolutely _not_.

Claude reached out to pull Dimitri back by the arm, but the prince spun around more quickly than Claude had anticipated—and far more quickly than he could react. There was an almost crazed glint in his eyes, and if he weren’t so surprised, Claude might have been pleasantly impressed by the spark of life in the prince’s eyes.

Before he knew it, Claude was falling—no, _flying_ —backwards into the table behind him. He realized with dawning horror exactly which table it was: the one with the ridiculous flowered cake that had cost a fortune. But the force of Dimitri’s shove meant Claude had no chance to save himself or divert course. The best he could do was grab desperately for Dimitri’s arm, causing both of them to collide with the cake table instead of just Claude.

The cake crashed to the ground, covering everyone and everything nearby with frosting. The world seemed to freeze, and in a moment of clarity, Claude could perceive every detail of the situation at hand. The feel of Dimitri’s slick suit still clutched in his hand. The way multicolored frosting had splattered wildly across Dimitri’s face, which was probably how Claude’s face looked well. A particularly large splash of white frosting across Dimitri’s cape and some blue stuck in his blond hair. A small cut on Dimitri’s cheek that was beginning to bleed from the champagne glass he had been holding when they fell.

Claude’s first thought was that Hilda and Dimitri weren’t going to be front page of the news anymore.

His second thought was that Judith was going to murder him and make it look like an accident—possibly with help from his grandfather.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dimitri muttered from next to him, aggrieved.

Claude dimly registered that he was still clutching the prince’s sleeve and that he had just heard Dimitri swear for the first time. Then cameras started flashing and a ripple of shocked whispers began to fill the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> All right, I want to return to this. I really do want to continue, because I had so many ideas for where this could head. And I think I will, but I need to finish another novel first. I don't know when I'll be back - could be weeks, could be months - but there will be at least one more chapter to this (and hopefully the entire thing to completion). I swear.  
> \- Seren (6/25/20)


End file.
